Pictures at an Exhibition
by Symphoniae Derelictae
Summary: A high schooler formerly under the dominion of his tiger parents finds a curious break from his life along with a new title: disabled. This sudden shift in his life triggers a transfer to a new school for the disabled, Yamaku Academy, and with it, a completely blank slate. It is the perfect opportunity for him to write his new life. OC story, may have marked M chapters later on.


**Hello, everyone. It's been a while since I've last been on this website. Somewhere around a year, if my memory has not failed me. Which I certainly hope it hasn't.**

**Next, here is a piece for this chapter:**

**Symphony No. 9 in e minor "**_**Z nového světa**_" **Op. 95 B. 178 by Antonín Dvořák**

**I hope at least one person gets it.**

**This providing of music to go along with the story will be something y'all will see every chapter. There's not really an exact reason why. I just listen to good music when I write, and usually that music influences my writings in some way, shape, or form.**

**Enjoy.**

**Oh, and I apologize in advance for the relatively poor quality of the following chapter. Prologues are most definitely not my forte.**

**Preludes are, though. :)**

* * *

**Prelude I: La Sérénade Interrompue**

**Kostroma, Russian Federation**

I exited the practice hall with a massive sigh. Yet another well-orchestrated rehearsal turned into an utter fiasco. And once again, it was pretty much my own fault. Though not intentionally, of course. It was an accident, like yesterday, and the day before, and really most every rehearsal I've participated in since arriving at the Music College. At least this time we'd made it through the first movement of the Rach II before I messed up again. Disappointment, anger, and tiredness all coursed through my head lobbying for their individual priorities. In order, I could have cried, mauled a pillow, or taken a nap. Or I could've attempted all three at the same time, but for whatever reason, I don't think that'd work out too well.

Though on second thought, I kind of understand the ire of the conductor towards me. I do have a certain… "tendency" to drift off at rather random times. While I call it a tendency, psychologists, or whatever they are, on the other hand, call it a disorder. I don't find my self disordered. Regardless, they call it depersonalization disorder, though a very mild case on my part. Apparently, my sensations of depersonalization are kind of out of focus, or fuzzy. Really, I just call them daydreams, and I know that I can see myself when I do daydream, which is pretty cool.

Despite my fascination with my daydreams, I find that my they've actually become more frequent since after around a week at the College. Probably just the stress of several times more piano practice a day than I've ever done in any week before, combined with copious amounts of boredom at the tedious daily schedule. Unsurprisingly, given the rather unfavorable weather outside, there wasn't a whole lot to do in Kostroma during the winter for an American southern high schooler. Indeed, being from Louisiana, the, to me, at least, bitter Russian winter wasn't exactly my favorite part about studying in Russia. Sighing once more at my situation, I walked down Pyatnitskaya Street for a short while to reach my favorite getaway spot in Kostroma, a small, creaky, damp wooden dock on the banks of the serene Volga.

I sat on the edge, letting my feet dangle mere inches above the frigid, flat water. It's not necessarily what I'd call a beautiful sight. The variably bottle green to matte blue colour was rather off-putting, not to mention the presence of a barge terminal-turned scrapyard just a short way up the river. Still, it's not bad. Across the river, there's a wide expanse of houses speckling the west side of the Volga. Russia proper. Still, the general area seemed to be rather sparsely populated, desolate, and yes, boring. I don't quite remember how much time I spent there on the dock after various lessons or rehearsals, to just cool down, take a breather, and stare off into the distance. It was quite relaxing to spend a few minutes there like that.

Apparently, I should have spend just a few more minutes relaxing, as what happened next disturbed and still does disturb me greatly. Despite the rapid, bewildering situation I found myself summarily placed in, and my subsequent falling unconscious, I remember the incident crystal clear. Well, nearly.

It was just as I reached halfway between the Volga and the Kostroma Music College. I was walking slowly, bundled warm, and breathing lightly but still visibly. I believe I was going without really noticing my surroundings, being transfixed upon my own thoughts and dreams. Rather standard, actually. What wasn't standard, however, was the terrain I was walking on. For whatever sorry reason, I had failed to notice that I was traversing upon a sidewalk coated with a thin layer of snow and, in some areas, glistening sheets of ice. Unfortunately, I happened to step on one of these sheets of ice, and that step quickly turned into a slip. A slip that caused my feet to move forwards suddenly faster than the rest of my body. Damned inertia. As expected, this slip sent myself rapidly rotating, throwing my head smack into the icy concrete, and flinging my feet up in the air. It wasn't a second before I crashed down in full, my own brain finally realizing the extent of my disaster a millisecond after. Then pain hit, then confusion, then a splitting headache, then darkness.

* * *

**Baton Rouge, United States of America**

Memory end. And that was the story of my first panic attack, and thus my subsequent downwards spiral into greater disability.

Apparently, according to passersby and the doctors at Kostroma, what occurred next was not the inglorious, wretched deluge of pain that I imagined in my manic confusion, but rather a steady, unending trickle of vital red fluid emanating from varied minute wounds on both arms, exacerbated by my rocking and fatigued thrashing.

In defense of my initial opnion, one supported by my doctor (even if only to make me feel a little bit better), I felt in the beginning stages as though I was going through a heart attack. Given the sheer amount of stress I was apparently accumulating, that wouldn't actually have been that unlikely, now that I think about it. Oh well.

Given that I couldn't remember much past that, I was filled in on my condition and the subsequent proceedings by a doctor at the Regional Hospital of the Kostroma Region, a kind man, who I assumed wanted to help immensely, but unfortunately for the both of us, did not speak much English. Nor did I speak much Russian, and certainly neither of us were able to converse in the technical language of medicine with our broken tongues. Once a translator was procured, I discovered that I had lost a great quantity of blood, and in addition exhibited what psychologists at Kostroma would later diagnose as panic disorder, caused in part by the high-stress environment I was apparently inhabiting.

Within a couple of days, I was carted off to a nameless hospital in Moscow that had marginally superior facilities than the Kostromite one. A flight to New Orleans was immediately booked. A week from the incident, I was entered into the Baton Rouge General Medical Hospital.

What immediately ensued were more tests, psychological, blood, muscular, other tests of seemingly arbitrary levels of significance. By the end of my diagnostic stay, around a month in, and thus two months before today, I would reckon that the hospital could have created a prognosis for the remainder of my life. Now that I think about it, that's not really that unlikely either.

The day the 'official' diagnosis, whatever official means in this situation, came, I wasn't very surprised at the results. A bored teenager in a hospital with access to the internet blossoms intellectually. The diagnosis solely served to reinforce my suspicions as to my varied conditions.

Conditions which were, to be honest, not much different the pre-incident ones.

Mild hemophilia A. Increased bleeding and minimal clotting make any kind of hemorrhaging pretty bad for me. Even a tiny little paper cut. Though thankfully internal bleeding is minimal for me.

Non-ocular Class IIa myasthenia gravis. Varying levels of muscular fatigability and weakness. Minimizes physical activity.

Depersonalization disorder. Recurring feelings of dreamlike self-awareness. Something I suspected I had developed prior to the incident, but was unable to check due to the insistence of my parents that it was 'just a little side effect of good, hard, work'.

The above three were pretty easy to take, given that the first two I had known for most of my life, and I was confident that I had developed a condition similar to it.

The fourth, however, was quite a shocker. One that made sense solely after reconstructing my memory of the incident.

Panic disorder. I was a walking anomaly, according to the psychologists. I experienced panic attacks, but for the month long period until the official diagnosis, and two months after that until this very day, I was, according to the psychologists, experiencing little mental fatigue or trauma outside of the panic attacks directly stemming from the disorder. The disorder in my circumstance seemed solely physical, and not mental.

Combined, these four conditions made me a walking, ticking time bomb of blood. With weakness in my legs, a tendency to daydream or depersonalize, and the constantly present danger of collapsing in a panic-induced fit, I was prone to buckle, thrash around, and in my fleeting consciousness, suffer some minor injury, and thus lose quite a sum of blood.

And it was this fear, supposedly, that prompted the doctors at the Baton Rouge General Medical Hospital to suggest my transfer outside of the States to continue my schooling. And this suggestion is what I'm sitting through right now. At least, I think so. I've had the doctor's voice tuned out for quite some time. Might as well just listen in again.

"...I've already spoken to your parents, and we've agreed that continuing your studies at a standard school would be detrimental not only to your health, but to your studies as well." He paused for a second, waiting for a reply.

I don't humor him. Though, I must admit that I am curious to know what he means by standard school.

And whatever will be different about the school I will be attending. Hopefully not too much.

"Well, while there are a variety of options regarding schools for the dis-" The doctor cuts himself off, looking rather sheepful. "Schools that would fit your needs, rather, a majority of the ones in the States that fit under that category cater primarily to students with more severe mental conditions than yourself, and less so within the physical realm of medical conditions."

Disabled. It was rather painfully obvious that the doc was about to say disabled. This means, I guess, that I am officially disabled. So this was it. I've crossed the threshold separating the 'normal' from the 'disabled'. The addition of a mental condition pushed me over that fine, elusive line. That line that separates the plain from the anomalies, the viewers from the exhibits. I don't want to be an exhibit. Am I an exhibit now? Just a picture at an exhibition? Is that what the disabled are? Am I right in thinking that? Though I suppose that as such, there will be no more standard schooling for me, as the doctor put it. It seems that my path has been set by medical professionals and experts as a path marred by disability, one that would, by the grace and opinion of society, never reach the capacity of a full life.

A newfound pressure alights itself upon my shoulder, as I vaguely notice the doctor's voice fade away. I shift my gaze to the doc and notice his expectant gaze.

"...Sorry. I wasn't listening. Could you please repeat?"

The doctor sighs deeply, then responds. "Have you listened to anything I told you? If not, well, I do understand why. But please try to listen. I'll make it short this time."

I nod wordlessly, keeping my gaze on the doctor.

"You'll be going, within a couple of weeks, to a school for the disabled in northern Japan." Well, at least he didn't have any trouble saying disabled that time. "Your parents agree that your education is the absolute highest priority for now." Of course they do. "In addition to being one of the top schools in the world in its category, this is one of the only schools in a nation that you would feel 'comfortable' travelling to, according to your parents. You're Japanese from… your father's side, correct?" I nod. "Right, they figured you'd prefer Japan to somewhere like- oh, I don't know, Switzerland or Korea or something or other."

That was quite a lot of 'or's, I note. Unfortunately, I lack the time to continue musing on it as he continues his speech.

"You'll be attending the equivalent of junior year starting in mid-April. Unfortunately, this does mean that you will be getting a little late of a start. In addition, you'll be residing on-campus, so there's no need to worry about logistics and lodging. There's a twenty-four hour professionally-trained nursing staff there as well, so your safety and health will be in great hands."

Japan, huh. One of the motherlands. Or, I guess, fatherland. Or father's land. I had always wanted to study abroad, particularly in Japan or China, where I could get in greater touch with my roots. But really, I will admit that the biggest reason for my hopes to study abroad were to escape the vicious, authoritarian tiger parenting that I live under in the States. It seems as though I'll finally be able to break free.

"Oh, right. Before I forget, here's the name of the school, as well as its address and directions from an airport in Tokyo. Your parents have booked your flight for a week from tomorrow. Well then, once your paperwork is finished, you'll be officially discharged, probably within half an hour or so. I think your parents are in the lobby. You're free to join them."

The doc hands me a sheet of paper. I scan it over and immediately understand his reluctance to pronounce my upcoming destination, or to give much more information about it.

In bland, bold print at the top, the words Yamaku Academy are written. There's a map on the paper as well, which places the new school pretty far from any big-city, but still within a good train's reach from Sendai.

Sendai… That's pretty damn far north. Farther than I've been. My dad's side of the family is from Yokosuka, way far south, right next to Tokyo and Yokohama. Going to Tohoku will be interesting. We'll see if the harsh-weathered paradise really stands up to its reputation.

Sighing yet again, I push myself upright in my hospital bed. I gaze around, perhaps for the final time, at a place I called an uneasy home for a good three months. It certainly did not feel very home-like. Regardless, I pull myself out of bed and throw on a seemingly randomly chosen set of clothes. Probably my parents' doing.

Speaking of which, I had probably better get going downstairs soon, to accompany them back to a place I called a similarly uneasy home for a good seventeen years. I slowly trudge down three sets of stairs to the first floor and walk to the lobby, where I immediately see my parents with their standard sombre faces finishing up paperwork at a nearby desk.

They stare at me. I dip my head slightly in response. A standard unspoken greeting we've had for years.

It really is quite pathetic. As is our subsequent ride home, which is smothered by an uncomfortable silence the whole way. I could probably count the words spoken in the car on one hand. Our sudden deceleration prompted me to look outside. So we'd arrived at our house. Or home. Either way.

The silence remains as my parents unlock the door and walk in, not looking back, simply expecting me to follow.

Which I do. There's nothing else really to do.

I pass them to walk to my room, and finally the silence is broken, in a completely expected manner. "You only have week until leave. Go pack, practice Japanese. Try to study. You will be behind others when get there. Is never good be late."

Taking the broken English in stride, I nod again, and retreat to my room.

* * *

A week had passed, and the date slated for my departure to Japan has finally arrived. The morning passes with mild difficulty. After going through what I've packed and year's syllabus for what seems to be the tenth time, my parents seem temporarily sated. I had all the bare necessities, my sheet music and books, casual and night clothes, a suit for good measure, toiletries, linens, my computer, and various study materials as insisted upon by my parents. On my carry-on are items I deemed crucial for the upcoming flight. My phone, earbuds, wristwatch, wallet, comfy slippers, and a random book for good measure.

Breakfast is rushed, at 7:00 AM. Boiled eggs and soy sauce. Not a huge fan personally, but I can't really complain. The drive to the airport is similarly quick and silent, arriving at a parking lot for Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport at around 8:00. As I step out of the car to fetch my luggage, I'm caught by surprise by my parents. My mother wraps me in a loose hug while my father stands a couple of feet away. Once I'm released from my mother's clutches, he speaks.

"Make sure sleep well. Eat well. Help you study. Tell us how you do. Tell us what you need. We can always send money, study materials, clothes there if you need."

And with that, he loosely and uncomfortable wraps his arms around me for a brief moment, and lets go just as fast. I guess it really is time to leave now. And as such, I say my goodbyes. For a while, at least.

"Zàijiàn, Mā. Sayōnara, Otōsan."

Turning around with a miniscule wave, I tread off to the international terminal, where standard check-in and security procedures go on, and then to my gate. Boarding begins in five minutes. Rather good timing, if I must say so myself.

And from boarding the flight until my arrival at the great gate of Yamaku, it's all a well-rehearsed, perfectly memorized, clockwork schedule, driven into my head by my parents' insistence.

* * *

A thirteen hour flight from New Orleans to Tōkyō Narita International Airport. Mediocre airplane food, mild turbulence, and copious amounts of therapeutic classical music make the flight bearable.

Upon arrival, and after the horrid experience known as customs, pick up luggage, transfer bills and coins, and grab a quick drink of iced coffee. Try to recall where the Narita Express station is. Fail. Look at a map. Remember. Buy a ticket and wait a few minutes for the next train. Prepare myself for a gradual shift to speaking only Japanese as I eventually depart from metropolitan Tōkyō. Similarly, I check the nearest clock and change my watch. It's 2:40 PM. Pretty good timing.

Take a one hour direct trip from Narita to Tōkyō Station. Navigate through hundreds, thousands of commuters and tourists to the east side of the station, get another iced coffee, take out a slightly wrinkled ticket for the Tōhoku Shinkansen to Sendai. Wait a few more minutes. Feel drowsy enough to almost sleep, get interrupted by the Shinkansen's arrival. Quickly board. Then sleep. Nap for a couple hours. It's a slow trip until Ōmiya, but speeds up considerably after that.

Arrive at Sendai at around 6:00 PM. Detour for a quick, bland bite to eat. Some small-name fast food joint. Wander around Sendai Station until I find the subway. Take a short subway ride to Izumi-Chūō Station. Wander around looking for the supposedly massive bus terminal. Find it after some asking around.

Board the bus to Yamaku. Apparently will take a few hours. Waste no time getting some jetlag induced shut-eye. Wake up disappointed after only two hours, and stare out the window for the remainder of the ride. Note the sky fade to black. Arrive at my new school, new home at around 9:00 PM.

Quick, mechanical, efficient. No time wasted. Just how my parents would love it.

I hop off the bus with my luggage in tow, and everything intact. I find myself in front of a set of grand gates, larger than expected. A mental image of a modest Russian man with fantastic facial hair flashes through my mind. I smile slightly. I walk to the building that looks most like a front office. Apparently I'm correct, as there's a tired looking young man sitting, or dozing rather, at a desk near the entrance. He seems happy at my arrival, which confirms my assumption. I hand him the necessary paperwork, a little smooshed from its ride in my suitcase, but generally in fine quality. He gives them a cursory glance, nods, and hands me a key.

"I've been waiting for you. You'll be staying in room 122. Please, allow me to direct you to the dormitories."

I nod, noting the professional politeness he has, despite his concealed annoyance at the lateness of my arrival. I check my watch. Only 10:00 PM. Not too late at all. He might be an early riser. As we walk out, I take a look at my surroundings. Though dark, they are classically beautiful. The brick walls look faded but still strong. Windows are clear. Overall pretty peaceful. I might be able to get used to it. Just might.

We enter the boy's dormitory. The hall lights are slightly dimmed, though not so much that I can't read the room numbers. I trace my finger along the wall until I reach room number 122. My home for now, I guess. I slip my key into the lock, turn, and push open the door, reluctantly stepping in to see where I'll be staying.

Beige walls, generic bottle green carpet, unlinened twin bed, a little closet inlet, a small folding table and chairs, and a pretty big desk. Overall, not too bad. Will need a little bit of work. I'm not disappointed with it though, which I guess is a positive sign. I hear the voice of the guy who led me here, and turn my head to face him.

"I know it's pretty empty now, so feel free to decorate the room how you wish. Just try to avoid using nails or screws, if you would please. No paint either."

I nod and step in, taking the room in its whole. Something in the corner, beside the bed catches my eye, and I find two cardboard boxes sitting there. I decide to ask about them.

"Um, sir. Do you know anything about those boxes? Those over there, I mean." I gesture to the bed with my head.

He frowns. "I'm not quite sure what's in them, if that's what you're asking. Though I do know that your parents ordered them and shipped them here from Sendai. Just yesterday, I think."

"Well, I'll check them out soon," I comment, going over to the bed for a closer look. I pause slightly and turn back. "Thank you for showing me the way. I'm very grateful. Good night." I bow deeply. He bows in return, and leaves the room.

And now I'm alone in my new room. I look around again. Still a foreign sight.

I turn around and glance at the boxes. Well, they're not going to open themselves. I open my suitcase and dig through it until I reach a small pair of scissors. Crawling back to the bed, I begin to tear through the boxes.

…

Well, here was a surprise. And a pleasant one at that. As it turns out, the gifts from my parents would be rather useful for once. I kneel down and look upon the mini fridge and electric kettle sitting before me. Nice, very much so, but hopefully this isn't a bid to just have me stay in my room to study all day. I must admit, it's pretty tempting.

I guess I should finish unpacking though. Want to finish before the day is done. I slow-motion spring to action, pulling myself up using the bed as support. First things first. I search my suitcase for a power adapter and two surge protectors, one Japanese, one American. I walk around the room until I find the outlet, and plug both in. My computer comes out next and is promptly stationed at the desk, same with the monitor. The fridge goes on the floor next to my bed, and the electric kettle is shifted atop the folding table. I place the clothes neatly in the closet, knowing that I'll treat them in a much more haphazard nature only days later. While rummaging around the closet, trying to make things fit, I glance up at the preplaced uniforms provided courtesy of the school.

Hmph. Pretty decent. Not _too_ bad looking. It is rather formal though, what with the tie… Oh well, nothing one can't deal with, I guess.

Toiletries go in the closet too, and the linens are thrown on the bed in an almost presentable manner. Pencils, pens, calculator, various other scholarly supplies go on and in the desk. The now empty suitcase is thrown on the bottom of the closet. A quick glance down at my watch confirms that I'd finished packing before the day was done. 11:30-ish. I frown. I'm not tired, having gotten a lot of sleep on the various train and bus rides here. And yet, there's not much to do here, given that I don't want to disturb anyone else's sleep. Though actually, there is one thing I can do. One thing that can make this upcoming transition a smidgeon easier for me. I grab soap, shampoo, conditioner, a towel, my razor, shaving brush, and shaving cream, and walk out of my room, closing the door after I feel in my pockets for my key. It would do no harm for me to make myself presentable for tomorrow.

The hallways are still dim as I wander around them, searching for a bathroom.

…

After a couple minutes of aimless searching, I find the showers and bathroom. At least, I think so. A quick peek inside confirms this. I enter and flip on the lights. I enter a shower and start a mechanical, absolutely fantastic cleaning regimen that feels heavenly after hours of showerless transit.

As I let the hot water wash over me, I muse over my arrival in Japan, and how my transition to a new lifestyle seems so far so simple. Perhaps it really wasn't. After all, I've only had one human interaction here so far. Maybe I'm just still in shock. Maybe I haven't seen anything of my new life yet. Maybe I'll come see difficulty eventually.

Or maybe it will be this easy, and I'll be able to quickly assimilate here. Though I doubt it.

I guess I'll just take it as it comes.

* * *

**Author's Note: To be honest I didn't just listen to the New World Symphony. I wrote this across a couple of days with the help of Mozart's Requiem in d minor (specifically Dies Irae), Liszt's Totentanz, and of course, the _oh my god _**_**absolutely stunningly magnificent **_**Rach II as well.**

**For a minute I felt Hemingway flow through me. Good god.**

**Oh, and just so it's clear, I don't consider the disabled 'exhibits' or negatively different in any matters of those terms. It's just the currently biased view of good old unnamed guy here. I'm as welcomingly indifferent as can be.  
**

**Well, just like still nameless protagonist, it's time for me to depart for now.**

**Hope you enjoyed. If you didn't, that's fine too, because like I said, I'm not great at first chapters. And I have difficulty putting down thoughts on the keyboard [not the piano's, but the computer's!] in general. Well, at least you'll have listened to a little bit of the New World Symphony, hopefully.**

**EDIT: I just fixed a dumb mistake. Whoops. :C**


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